I’ll never forget the drive to Barmouth – we’d packed the car to the roof with kids’ beach toys, cool bags stuffed with picnic bits, and enough snacks to feed a small army. Halfway there, just past Dolgellau, the heavens opened and my sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly, rerouting us down some winding back lane that felt like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. Cue much faffing about with soggy maps on my phone while the little ones chanted “are we there yet?” from the back. But as we crested the hill and spotted the glint of the sea, all that stress melted away. Barmouth was calling, and I could already taste the fish and chips.

Pulling up to our first-floor apartment right in the heart of it all, I felt that proper holiday buzz – you know, the one where you’re grinning like an idiot before you’ve even unpacked. They’d left a parking permit in the welcome pack, which was a godsend; we unloaded in a frenzy of beach bags and welly boots without circling the block like headless chickens. Up the steps, and blimey, it was spot on: cosy living room with a plush sofa begging for Netflix binges, a kitchen kitted out enough to whip up spag bol without feeling like a proper chef, and two airy bedrooms – one with that massive zip-and-link bed for me and the missus (or mates if you’re travelling that way), and bunks for the kids that had them whooping like they’d won the lottery.

First impressions? Cracking. We dumped the bags and headed straight out to Traeth Abermaw, that Blue Flag beach just a hop away. The sand was perfect for moats and wonky castles, with the kids sploshing about in rock pools while we sipped tea from a flask, watching the tide roll in. Evenings were pure bliss: rustling up tea in the kitchen, then sprawling on the sofa planning the next day over a board game that inevitably ended in giggles and mild chaos – one kid always ends up under the table “hiding” the pieces.

We kept it dead relaxed, pottering around Barmouth’s high street with its ace little shops and pubs. Popped into a café for cream teas that were more cream than scone, and one rainy afternoon we braved the pier, feeding the seagulls and laughing as they dive-bombed our chips. A short hop to Harlech – all of 15 minutes – and we wandered the castle walls, the views over the coast and those Eryri hills making you feel tiny in the best way. The kids loved the slate caverns there too, emerging covered in “treasure” (aka mud) and begging for ice creams.

Don’t get me wrong, there were those cottage-life moments that make you reflect: like when I burnt the toast on day two and spent half an hour faffing with the smoke alarm, or the time the bunk bed creaked like it was auditioning for a horror film. Made me chuckle, though – holidays aren’t about perfection, are they? They’re about those simple joys: salty air, full tummies, and family squabbles that fade by bedtime. Barmouth’s got that magic – pubs for a pint, beach for downtime, and enough nearby walks to tire out even the bounciest nippers. We left knackered but buzzing, already plotting our return. If you’re after a chilled family break in Snowdonia, this spot’s a winner.